


behold and undertake (my love)

by sleepybb8



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Strangers to Lovers, The future is now, multiple mentions of the Howlies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepybb8/pseuds/sleepybb8
Summary: Steve feels trapped in this bright, shiny future. He's alone, barely keeping his head above water. Clint swans in to fix it but Steve doesn't want his help, until his does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nausi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nausi/gifts).



Steve didn’t realize until two weeks after, that Barton had been one of the agents in black who escorted him from Times Square. Honestly, Steve doesn’t remember many details from that day past smashing through the wall and blinking at the lights and noise. Every day after that has been spent inside the compound; simply going through the motions. The walls were grey, the bed sheets were grey, the food was grey.

  
Barton introduced himself in the Mess hall, as Steve was picking apart a sandwich. He simply sat down, metal tray piled with brownies clanking on the table. He shoved one in his mouth and extended a hand to shake.

  
“Barton, Clint Barton.”

  
Steve’s manners prompted him to return the handshake before truly registering what was happening. He stared at Barton’s face, mouth rimmed with chocolate, freckled nose and crinkled eyes. Fought the urge to scan the room for Fury. Another test.

  
“Steve Rogers,” he finally got out.

  
Barton pushed the tray closer to Steve. “Brownie?” He grabbed two and both disappeared into his mouth.

  
“No, thank you,” Steve gestured to his own lunch.

  
Barton made a noise that sounded vaguely like choking, it took Steve a beat to instead realize he was laughing.

  
“Mess Hall B has shit food, but their desserts are awesome. If you want a good breakfast, beat the rush in Hall C. Of course, you’re closer to A so if you don’t mind slightly burnt pancakes they at least use real maple syrup.”

  
It didn’t surprise Steve that Barton knew where he was bunking. Steve knew he was being monitored 24/7. The odd blinking light in the corner of his room as he tossed and turned on the cot made him dream in Morse code.

  
Dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot.

  
“Maple syrup?”

Clint nodded enthusiastically, “From Québec.”

  
Steve had never been to Canada.

  
“Of course, if you want an actual good sandwich there’s a Deli down the street.”

  
There’s the catch. Steve stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He could feel everyone’s eyes turn to him, looking through their eyelashes. It was different than being on the stage, when his job was clear and the crowds were adoring. Here everyone was just waiting for him to pull the next move, break out, give them reason to put him in a smaller box.

  
Without another word Steve left the Mess Hall. People he passed pressed themselves to the walls to avoid the breadth of his shoulders. His body; still too new, too big, in clothes that didn’t feel right on his skin. He was surrounded by people in black suits and no one wore a fucking hat. As he closed the door to his room and just stood, willing his chest to stop heaving he ached for a cig. Asthma or no, it would be calming. But he had none, and the Commandos weren’t there to bum one off of. That night, he covered the entire wall with his blanket to block out the blinking light and slept on the floor.

 

Barton found him the next morning as Steve tentatively poured maple syrup on his stack of pancakes. They were thicker than the ones Mrs. Barnes would make in the winter, and he knew they wouldn’t taste the same, but there was a pain in his stomach that he had attributed to hunger. Despite how this new century food turned to dust in his mouth, he methodically lifted the fork to his lips. He was waiting for Fury to show up, reprimand him for his actions yesterday. Sooner or later, they would all get tired of just watching.

  
Steve was tired of them just watching.

  
He was going to finish these pancakes and then he was going to run the track.

  
As he finished the last forkful, syrup sticky on his fingers and too cloyingly sweet under his tongue, Barton appeared again. He was wearing a blue sweater with moth eaten cuffs that slipped down over his fingers. His smile was as wide as yesterday, but Steve could see how he stood shifted to the left, his shoulder curled inward just so to ease tension on the collar bone.

  
There were bags under his eyes that Steve was sure mirrored his own.

  
“I see you took my advice.”

  
Steve stacked his utensils carefully and crossed the hall to deposit it on the conveyer belt back to the kitchen. When he turned on his heel, Clint was right there in front of him.

  
“Read any good books lately?”

  
Steve thought back to the stack of files and tablet on his desk. Years of history that he would have lived through condensed into black and white text. He had flicked through the tablet’s programs, but it felt like parts were missing; a puzzle he couldn’t complete, an hour glass, glued to the table, running out of sand. They’d won the war, that much he knew. But how did the rest of the world move on.

  
“Lately, I’m into Audible. It reads it to you, so I can listen to Harry Potter while I shoot. I’m a sniper, so can’t really juggle a book and a bow.”

  
“Who’s Harry Potter?” What’s so important about him that would make Barton risk being distracted while in the sniper’s nest.

  
“The Boy Who Lived,” Barton said, “He’s a wizard and fights evil with magic.”  
“Like Merlin.”

  
“Well, I’d say Dumbledore is more like Merlin and Harry is kind of Arthur. Chosen one and all that.”  
Steve remembered him and Bucky pouring over Arthurian legends from the library, late at night with only a flashlight casting shadows in their pillow fort. A small boy from nothing who found himself wrapped up in fate and handed a legacy he may or may not have wanted. Thinking about it now, it stung. Barton, shoving his knife in the chinks of Steve’s armour.

  
“Tell Fury I’ll get to the files ASAP.”

  
Clint’s face fell. “Fury? I haven’t seen the Director in days. Pretty sure he and Coulson are somewhere in New Mexico.”

  
Steve paused. If Fury wasn’t on base, Barton must have been assigned as his tail. Maybe if he played nice and Barton sent back notes, Fury would lift the ban when he returned. He could find a library, call Peggy from an untapped line, and figure out this whole mess.  
Steve could play the long con. He could play nice with Barton and pass all the tests, be the dancing monkey they all accused him of being.

  
“Do you have the physical books?”

  
He was rewarded with Barton doing a physical double-take. He hid the wince of his pulled shoulder behind a grin. The way he shifted his head showed Steve a faint scar under his ear.  
“I think there are a few in the rec room.”

  
Steve followed Barton down the hall, pausing briefly as Barton met each person by name, inquired about a lady’s dog, a man’s daughter, another’s vacation. Each person met Steve’s eyes briefly with a respectful nod and carried on their way.

  
The rec room was deserted. Clint flicked on the light and walked over to the bookshelf. It was stuffed full of dog eared paper backs, their spines broken and creased from flipped pages and being shoved into rucksacks.

  
“Communal library,” Clint confirmed his suspicions. He pulled out a thin book showing a spectacled boy in front of a train. “It started as a kid’s book, but it gets dark pretty fast. There are movies too, if you end up liking the series.”

  
“A children's book?”

  
“You’re young, you should know Harry Potter.”

  
Young. In July, Steve would be ninety-four. He didn’t feel very young. He wondered how old Clint was.  
Steve wanted to deny that Clint’s smile was infectious. It appeared so easily, like warm butter spread over bread. He must be young.

  
“I’ll just stick with the books. Thank you.”

  
“Sure, just return and swap it for _Chamber of Secrets_ when you’re done. I don’t think anyone else is reading the series since Peterson stopped after Aragog.”

  
Steve’s head was starting to pound with these words he had no context for. At least when he was alone in his bunk, he could take a break; close his eyes when the words started to swim in front of him. With Clint there was no escape. The lights suddenly seemed too bright.

  
“I have to go.”

  
Steve had exited the rec room before Clint could get another word out. He could hear the whispers of his mother, angry at his lack of manners. Not for the first time, he was also angry at himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve spent that day in his barracks, working his way through the 80s. A smaller folder helpfully labelled “culture” was included at the bottom containing files of music. He flicked through them, quickly deciding it wasn’t for him. The odd dissonance bounced off the metal walls. Eventually Steve placed the tablet aside and his eyes were drawn to the book on his desk. The last book he could remember holding was the book of French poetry Gabe kept in his breast pocket. Gabe and Dernier took turns reading from it on quiet evenings before the sun went down. Their lilting voices sent the Howlies off to sleep like the surrealist poetry was a children’s lullaby. Even Dugan, who didn’t speak a lick of French besides a handful of salacious greetings, would sit quietly as they huddled in their bed rolls and watched the sunset.

When Steve exited his room later to exchange the book, the Rec Room was no longer deserted.  
There was a group of people clustered around the couches, some holding controllers and watching the television. They quieted a bit as Steve passed them, but resumed their murmuring as he lingered in front of the bookshelf pretending to search.

“Heard Barton’s been bugging the good Captain,” a man said to the group.

A woman huffed a laugh, “He’s like a lost puppy.”

Steve stiffened, fingertips brushing the spines of a book. Their voices were pitched low, covered by the artificial sounds of gunfire from the screen. Steve knew the group assumed the particulars of their conversation went unnoticed but since the Serum both fixed and improved Steve’s bum ears, they came in loud and clear. He knew he couldn’t expect a decades’ old captaincy to allow him any command over these people. He wasn’t a part of this SHIELD, not in any official capacity yet any ways. However, he was upset about being seen as a puppy, lost or otherwise.

“He’s so lonely he has to search for new friends.”

“I’m surprised he even knows how to make conversation,” another man sneered. He jostled the guy beside him and stole the controller, shoving him again as they wrestled for control. 

There were muttered agreements.

Steve’s blood rushed to his ears. He knew not to expect slipping back into the leadership role, but he at very least he expected respect. There were soldiers. People like him who trained together, lived together, died together. He knew very well that warfare had changed, but the fact that these operatives were here working within a quasi-secret branch of the government spoke volumes about how the struggle for peace had stagnated since Steve went under. He could almost feel Bucky’s hand on his forearm, trying to lead him from yet another a confrontation. 

“Well, he knows without Spider Bitch here, no one will talk to him,” a woman piped up. “And with Agent Coulson away, he doesn’t even have his daily check-ins. Hopefully the Captain realizes what a weak link he is.”

It took Steve a moment to untangle those sentences. As understanding dawned, his blood boiled for a different reason. They were talking about Barton and comrades of his, not Steve; they were badmouthing a fellow soldier when he wasn’t even in the room to defend himself. 

Steve had no problem with ribbing between friends. Lord knew the Howling Commandos had had their share of scraps and harsh words. There was the time that Dugan had stolen Monty’s britches after that soak in a creek to wash the mud from their boots and the blood from their hands. Dugan had expected the Brit to stay in the water as he danced gleefully on the shore. Instead, he was faced with naked fury as Monty verbally dressed him down and explained every mistake the man had done on the latest mission.

Steve knew teasing and he knew mean-spirited fun. He’d been at the end of both all his life. 

He had made his decision. Steve pulled his new book off the shelf and walked back to the group. He smirked at the sudden straightening of backs and clearing of throats. 

“Ladies, gentlemen,” he greeted.

“Captain Rogers,” one man answered. The ring leader.

“I heard you mention Agent Barton. I was wondering if any of you could direct me to his barracks. I have to return something he leant me.”

The two women exchanged uneasy looks. “I’m not too sure, I think it’s at the end of the hall, left after exiting Mess Hall B.”

That seemed like oddly specific instructions to be said after a conditional opening. 

“Thank you. I’ll head over there now.”

As he left the room, he could feel the tension snap. Bucky would have been proud of him for the tact he displayed. Next time though, they had best watch their mouths.

xx

Steve wasn’t sure what he expected to see when he knocked on the door, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of Clint wrapped in a florescent blanket blinking at him like an owl. The room was dark behind him, but there was artificial light streaming from what Steve assumed was a laptop. Was that the sound of dogs barking?

“Steve?” Clint rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles like child.

“I… The book.” Steve held it up

Recognition returned to his eyes. Clint opened the door wider and ushered Steve in.

The difference between Clint’s barracks to Steve was monumental. Steve paused in the doorway to take in the posters on the wall, the soft blankets on the bed, and delicate lights strung around the perimeter. The desk was missing, replaced instead with a lumpy, purple chair. Clint sheepishly flipped the laptop shut, cutting off the dog sounds. It was peaceful. Steve hadn’t even thought about decorating his room. To be fair, he had no items of his own to use. Clint’s room felt like a home, a safe-space; nothing like the fake set-up in which Steve had awoken.

Clint flung himself into the purple chair and sunk almost to the floor, the blanket settled dramatically around his shoulders like a cap. The filling inside made an odd rustling noise. He Clint tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back if you were resting.”

Clint hummed.

“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”

Clint cracked one eye open, his face softly illuminated by the fairy lights. “I don’t have my hearing aids in,” he pointed to a shelf beside his bed where two small bean like pieces of plastic sat. Steve recognized them as the inserts he noticed in Clint’s ears before.

“You’re deaf.”

Clint cocked his finger like a gun. “All I can really hear right now is rumbles. Anyone ever tell you that you have really nice rumbles?”

Steve can’t say anyone has ever told him that, but he did understand to an extent. Steve’s mother didn’t have enough money to buy him a hearing aid as a child after his last bout of meningitis. His hearing was dulled, but those who knew and cared stuck to his right side. His mother often leaned in close, with her perfume tickling his nose as her cool hands held his cheeks, making sure he was focused on watching her mouth. One of the best things about the Serum, other than the complete absence of chronic pain, was hearing music clearly again: the jazz from the radio, the piano in English pubs, Bucky’s soft singing.

Steve crouched beside Clint on the floor and gave the cushion an experimental poke.

“S’called a bean bag. Little styrofoam beans, not real ones.”

Steve didn’t see how sitting in it would be very comfortable.

They both sat quietly on the floor for some minutes, before Clint groaned and stood up. He put one of the hearing aids into his right ear.

“Sorry,” said Clint.

“What are you apologizing for?”

Clint shrugged. He scuffed a socked foot across the floor.

Steve had to wonder how much of Clint’s attitude was an act. For a sick instant, he wondered if Clint was even deaf. If Fury staged a high-rise apartment, whose to say the lengths to which they would go to endear themselves to Steve. However, thinking back to what he heard from the other agents it was obvious that Barton operated on the outskirts of the group. 

“Do you sign?” Steve asked.

Clint snapped his head up. “Do you?”

“I knew a bit as a kid,” Steve admitted. His mother had taught him important words he would need in case his hearing ever became worse.

“I know enough. I learned as a kid too.” 

From the tone of his voice, Steve figured there was a story there that Clint was reticent to tell. He decided to change subjects out of politeness and ask the initial question that brought him to Clint’s room.

“Is there a track here?”

“Did no one give you a tour? Is that why you were sadly eating the gross Mess Hall food?” Clint sounded scandalized.

Fury had given him a cursory tour then left him to his own devices. In the past week, all Steve had done is circle his room and grab food. He legs were aching for a long run.

“Yeah, let’s go. I’m sure we can grab you some spare workout clothes,” Clint slid his gaze down Steve’s body, taking in his pleated pants and collared shirt. “Those like more like church clothes to me.”

Steve fought down the urge to comment on this century’s ideas of fashion. “I can still run faster than you in these.”

Clint gave a toothy grin, clearly enjoying the snark. “I don’t doubt it, but I kind of want to see you in a t-shirt.”

The gym was large and bright. Sun streamed in through high windows, making it pleasantly warm. A raised oblong track circled various exercise machines and boxing rings. Clint led him to a laundry room off the main entrance. He rummaged through the shelves with ease as he pulled out sweat pants and shirts, holding them up to judge their size against Steve’s body. He handed the outfit and a pair of black shoes to Steve and pushed him into the change rooms.

When Steve exited, he saw Clint stretching his hamstrings against the wall. Clint was still favouring his one shoulder; the forearm shaking as he held up his leg. Clint turned as Steve approached, giving him a blatant once over. Steve tried not to flush under the scrutiny.

Steve jogged past him, starting off slow. Clint caught up easily.

They jogged in silence for a few laps before Clint spoke again.

“How do the shoes feel?”

“They’re easier to run in than combat boots.”“Yeah, I’ll give you that,” Clint said, rounding the inside corner. “You look good in those clothes.”

Steve started running faster, leaving Clint behind. It had been so long since he stretched his legs. He had more than sixty years of ice to melt from his veins. There was no one else on the track, but Steve could see various agents working on the equipment below. He lapped Clint once.

Steve needed to make a plan. As of yet, he had no goal. All his life, he had had something to work towards. After years of fighting, he felt aimless in this new space, simply awaiting a mission once Fury found him useful again. He lapped Clint twice.

As he was changing, Steve had tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. Stretching the elastic waistband over his hips, his biceps stretching the sleeves to a point that made him uncomfortable. He just had to wear it like any other uniform. It certainly wasn’t any worse than the War Bond performance costume. He lapped Clint a third time.

As he approached Clint again to head for another lap, Clint stuck out his arm catching Steve on the shoulder to slow him down.

“Can we just jog for a bit?”

“This is a jog.”Clint blew out a large breath and then, just as Steve was ready to take off again, Clint tripped.

“Aw, feet,” Clint said, as he sprawled on the floor. 

Steve hovered above him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not much of a runner.”

Steve remembered Clint mentioning he was a sniper. He wondered how much running the Agent had to do in the field. It would be a good idea to see Agent Barton’s skill on the range.

“I can see that.” 

“Who knew America’s greatest hero was so sassy. Coulson is going to be so disappointed.”

Steve had heard Agent Coulson’s name mentioned quite a few times. He figured he should start learning the other agents’ names. That would make it easier to call people out on their shit. Sooner or later, he could see Fury putting him back in the field. Everyone knew his name, it was only fair to return the favour.

“Maybe we could try something else,” Steve said.

Now that he knew where the track was, he could come here alone. Finally a way to spend the sleepless nights.

Clint’s eyes lit up again, still laying on the floor. “Let me show you my favourite place on earth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the sweet comments thus far; I'm sorry I haven't replied to any yet. I'm taking an online course for a Teaching AQ this summer and time management is not my friend. I use *deaf when speaking of Clint because in my story he does not consider himself culturally Deaf. Please expect more references to ASL in the future. 
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy the story.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint’s ‘favourite place on earth’ turned out to be the range. They took the elevator down and Steve followed Clint through the labyrinthine halls of the basement sub-level. There were stations of the typical firing range set up where agents stood with firearms and shot at foam models of people. Clint walked confidently into one of the long narrow rooms with foam circle targets of various sizes at the end, ushered Steve in, and closed the door. The large shelf-like hardware on the wall housed a bow and multiple arrows. 

Steve could honestly say that he had never seen anyone shoot with a bow and arrow. He tried not to look too gobsmacked as Clint easily pulled back the string. The arrow flew so quickly, Steve turned to see it embedded firmly into the bullseye of a target at the end of the room.

“Interesting choice of weapon,” Steve said.

Clint turned to him with a large smile on his face. “Almost as interesting as a metal disk?”

Steve inclined his head in assent, but that got him thinking. He didn’t know where his shield had gone. It was in the plane, and it was not in the bed beside him when he woke up. It had been a passing thought since then, but now confronted by a soldier with a weapon Steve suddenly felt slightly panicked. He clenched his fists.

Clint had notched another arrow. Steve could see a red mark from where the string had smacked his wrist. Looking closer, Steve recognized scars from past welts; years of past abuse. There had to be some form of protection to wear. Clint’s eyes were narrowed in concentration and, after a short beat, he notched a second arrow. Clint let them fly. With solid ‘thunks’ they each hit the bullseye of separate targets on opposite ends on the range. Steve wasn’t going to question how that happened.

Just as Steve was inching his way towards the safe on the wall to see if there was a pistol with which to warm up, someone else walked through the door. A red head. Someone Clint was already familiar with, if the way he jumped into her arms and clasped his arms around her neck was any indication.

To her credit the woman wasn’t fazed. Her hands instantly went up to steady Clint and gently patted him on the back like one would a child. She met Steve’s bewildered gaze over Clint’s shoulder. Her eyes assessing him in a way that reminded him of what he had come to understand of Clint, taking everything in, but Clint’s infectious smile was absent from her features. 

“You didn’t tell me the op was over,” Clint said.

“I figured it’d be a nice surprise, but I can see you haven’t been too lonely.”

Clint squeezed the woman one last time before hopping down and fixing his shirt. “Steve, this is Natasha. She loves pistachio ice cream and watching romantic comedies.”

“You watch many more rom-coms than I do,” she rolled her eyes.

“This is how you make friends, Nat, by finding common interests.”

Steve had a vivid flashback of Clint offering him brownies and sharing Mess Hall facts. Steve could recognize the warmth in her eyes; the two must be close. Steve felt like he was intruding.

“Now you say something about yourself,” Clint prompted.

Steve hesitated. When was the last time he introduced himself with the intention of making a good first impression? Simply engaging in conversation for the sake of company and reciprocal conversation had been a low priority for a long while. That family in the farm house in Kiev, probably, with the two young sons who delighted hanging off Steve’s arm like he was a yoke and they were buckets of water. Even with the Peggy and the Commandos, they were thrown together with the common goal already in place. No need for small talk. Although, Steve painfully remembered that first awkward car ride to the serum procedure. Once again, Steve was flabbergasted in front of a dame. Some things truly never change.

Thankfully, Natasha read his discomfort easily. She stepped forward with a handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

Clint scoffed, “Aw, pleasantries.”

“I hope Clint hasn’t been bothering you too much,” Natasha said.

Steve looked to Clint, who suddenly seemed very interested in a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. He looked back to Natasha, whose smile had sharpened. It wasn’t a flippant question amongst new acquaintances; she was sizing him up.

“Not at all,” Steve answered trying to seem genuine. He saw Clint’s bewildered expression from the corner of his eye. He may not have entirely understood Clint’s reasons for talking to him, but the man wasn’t annoying by any means.

Natasha put her hands on her hips, “Let me know if he starts being trouble for you.”

“Nat!” Clint squawked indignant. “When would I ever?”

“I’m not even going to bother answering that.”

“I’m gonna head back to my room, now,” Steve said. “See you ‘round, Clint. Natasha, again pleasure meeting you.”

Since Clint’s partner was back, Steve figured that the man would have less reason to bug Steve for company. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone used Steve for a time and abandoned him: school mates for his homework, gals to get closer to Bucky, neighbourhood guys playing nice and then shaking him down for cash. At least this time he got a book recommendation out of it.

“Already?” Clint reached for Steve’s arm.

“I’m sure the two of you have lots to catch up on,” Steve said.

Natasha grabbed Steve’s other arm. Her wrists were small but Steve felt the pressure of her holding him tight to her side. 

“Clint and I were going to head to my favourite café. Right, Clint?”

Clint nodded.

“It’s been ages since I had a muffin,” Natasha said. 

Clint mirrored Natasha, fully grabbing Steve’s other arm. “Come with us, Steve. Please?”

A real café. Steve remembered eating croissants and coffee in France, brushing away the flaky crumbs from his uniform. It was a quiet afternoon, a brief reprieve after weeks of recon across enemy lines. Morita had complained that the bread was too light, missing his mother’s heavy buns full of sweet bean paste. That had started a row of the Howlies favourite game of listing what they missed. It was bittersweet, lamenting on things they had left behind. For Steve, who had never even left New York until that training camp in Jersey, being in France was like a dream come true. He had no opportunities to buy artisanal bread in Brooklyn. Hell, most summers he barely had enough spare change for a hot dog from Nathan’s. He and Dernier had exchanged amused glances over their coffee cups as the others prattled on, willing themselves to be entertained by the moment where they felt comfortable enough to complain without the persistent fear of enemy fire. Even Agent Carter had been able to join them on that occasion, adding her two cents of how she was closer to home than ever and still missing her grandmother’s vegetable pasties.

Right now, all Steve truly wanted was a slice of his mother’s soda bread and he doubted a café frequented by a lady as classy as Natasha sold such simple wares.

“Please, Steve?” Clint repeated, pulling Steve closer to the door.

“I suppose I can go for a bit,” he conceded.

“Thank you for clearing your busy schedule,” Natasha said. Steve could hear the teasing in her voice. It wasn’t malicious, but it made Steve bristle nonetheless. He swallowed any retort that threatened to bubble up. He needed to get outside.

Turns out the café really was outside the SHIELD compound. Clint and Natasha escorted him through the guards at the front doors and out into the street. The two agents working security detail gave them odd looks, reaching for their walkie talkies as if to call in the trio’s movement, but one gave a shrug and the other followed suit to usher them through and continue checking badges of people returning.

It was the first time Steve had been outside since the run through Times Square. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. People moved about holding their umbrellas warily, living their lives, aware of each other only in passing as they worried about paying rent or cleaning their apartment or caring for a loved one. It wasn’t too long ago that Steve worried about all these things and more. 

Natasha flipping up the lapels of her burgundy duster jacket to draw closer attention to her cheekbones. Clint and Steve were still wearing their workout clothes and, though the wind didn’t bother Steve, Steve felt Clint shivering in his thin t-shirt.

“It’s not far, I hope?” Steve said.

Clint’s teeth were chattering, “Nope, just down the street.”

Natasha led them, weaving in between people like a fish in water, and stopped under a pale blue awning. The door was heavy wood and the delicate chime sounded as Clint pushed it open. Steve followed close behind and watched as Clint gave a wave to the young girl behind the counter. 

“Barton!” she chastised. “It’s much too cold for such clothes”

“I’ll just have to buy a large piece of cake to warm me up.”

“That’s not how cake works,” Steve said, as he approached the glass display he could hear Natasha laugh behind him.

The girl was already placing a slice of some type of chocolate cake onto a plate.

“Miss, will you be having your usual?”

Natasha passed a twenty dollar bill to the worker. “Yes, please. Steve?”

Steve looked up from the various cakes and loaves. “Hmm?”

Natasha regarded him a moment. “I think we’ll save the chocolate cheesecake for a later day.”

The girl ducked behind the counter again and returned with another piece of cake. “Carrot? It’s got a bit less sugar, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Steve nodded, unsure of what other alternative he could offer. Natasha collected them all, leading Steve to a round table in the far corner where Clint was already building something that looked vaguely like Stonehenge out of sugar packets.

The carrot cake was golden brown, speckled with the flecks of shredded carrot. The icing was pure white, nestled like snow atop a mountain. It certainly didn’t look like it was lacking any sugar. He picked up his fork and gave an experimental swipe. The icing was scooped up easy, leaving him with a forkful that he hesitantly brought to his mouth.

Clint took bites of his cake while he watched Steve. “If it’s too much, you can just scrape it off.”

Steve rolled the icing over his tongue. It wasn’t bad, necessarily. It reminded him of the maple syrup from earlier. When he was younger, eating sugar wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Even as he got older, most of the sweets he got were given away to Bucky’s little sisters. Later, he traded his Hershey bars to keep Bucky in smokes.

Speaking of which.

“Either of you have a smoke I can bum?”

Clint choked on his cake. Natasha nonchalantly reached over and clapped him on the back, hard enough to push him forward in his seat. He dropped his fork, raised his hand to his ears, 

“I think my ears just shorted out. Can you repeat that?”

Steve took another scoop of icing, with cake this time. “A cigarette. I was just thinking I haven’t seen anyone smoking.”

“Steve, cigarettes cause cancer,” Clint said earnestly. “You can’t even smoke inside anymore.”

It was so silly that Steve laughed until Natasha raised her eyebrow and took a large bite of her lemon poppyseed muffin, turning to look out the window.

“You’re not pulling my leg? What about menthol cigarettes; what do people with asthma do?”

“I’m sure a lot things are different for you now,” Natasha said gently. 

Too gently. Of course, things were going to be different. Steve had closed his eyes in an airplane destined to destroy the entire East coast, said goodbye to a woman he had feelings for, and woke up to an fabricated reality. There were talking books, no more rations, World War III had yet to erupt from whatever state the world was in. What was he supposed to do?

Clint had an uneasy look on his face, like he wanted to take back what he said. It wasn’t his fault; Steve would have found out sooner or later. The odd craving for a cig between his fingers would have returned eventually. And there would be other things that surprised him, things not in the files, events he would have to uncover for himself to better understand the time he was currently stuck in. So Steve did what he had been finding himself doing a lot in the past few weeks.

He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait between chapters. These past two weeks have been... Hell. Thank you all for the comments thus far. Wanna chat on [tumblr](http://www.sleepybb8.tumblr.com)?


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha and Clint found Steve in Central Park, hunched over on a park bench near the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland statue. With the impending rain, parents were hustling their children along instead of letting them stop to climb. One little girl eagerly jumped her way up the mushrooms and patted the White Rabbit’s head gently before her father carried her off.

Clint was now wearing pants and a purple windbreaker. The hood was lined with a warm looking wool. Steve was suddenly aware of his own bare arms. He didn’t truly shiver like he used to, but he could feel the mist settling on his skin, clinging to his eyelashes. Clint sat down beside him on the other end of the bench, while Natasha wavered behind him.

A couple hurried past sharing an open umbrella, eager to get home before the skies opened up. Steve wondered what he would have done had he been caught in the rain. 

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,” Clint recited. “My second grade teacher made us memorize it by ear. It was horrible.”

Steve had to wonder how young Clint would have managed to understand let alone replicate Caroll’s poetry. Steve remembered sitting in the front row of the classroom, desperately straining to hear the droning teacher as she read from behind her textbook.

“Callooh, callay,” Steve sing-songed, and Clint snorted.

Natasha moved to the front of the bench to give them both a look of disbelief; “Children.”

Steve hadn’t had a plan in mind when he had abruptly left the café. He had just ran, as if he was still on the track. Wandering around Manhattan, the storefronts were different from those he remembered, the styles of the people passing him were different. He avoided Times Square, instead slipping onto a tree-lined path in the park. He hadn’t spent much time here as a child, but there was the odd time he and Bucky had picked their way around the flop tents to find Bucky’s uncle.

Steve knew that Clint would have found him eventually. For one blood-chilling moment, Steve imagined Stark injecting him with a tracker, somewhere he would never notice. A little beeping chip set just under the skin.

“Let’s go back,” he stood and brushed off his sweatpants.

“Good,” Clint bounced up on his toes, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his coat. “Who’s up for ice-cream?”

Natasha cuffed him on the back of the head but Steve could tell she pulled her punch, and Clint’s exaggerated wince was for show.

“Okay, but what about gelato?”

“I could go for some gelato,” Steve said. He hadn’t finished his cake at the café.  
Natasha threw her hands up, “Animals, both of you.” She started up the path without them but she was already pulling out her wallet.

The gelato store served the cones as flowers. Clint took great pains in trying as many as possible at once, the nervous attendant adding each flavour as an individual petal. When they arrived back at SHIELD, Steve was munching the last of his lime-basil cone and Clint was licking sticky dulce de leche from his wrists. Outside the store as the clouds were breaking apart and weak sunlight made it’s way onto the sidewalk, Clint had made Steve stand close beside him and lift their treats as he took a picture on his cellphone. 

Natasha stopped to talk to the new pair of security guards at the door. Clint rushed him along, hustling them up the stairs. Steve could hear their raised voices and feel their stares on his back, but no one followed him. Steve knew the next time he made a break for it, he would not be treated to such courtesy. Steve hoped he would keep his emotions in check next time, but that last few days were any indication he did not have much faith in himself.

Clint followed Steve back to his room. Clint took his phone out again and tapped the screen. Steve’s tablet lit up on his desk as the notification came through and there was the picture. A selfie, Clint had called it. Steve had been looking at the screen, whereas Clint looked at the lens itself with his multi-coloured flower covering the lower half of his face. 

“It’s amazing,” Steve said.

Clint looked up from where he was leaning against the wall. “That’s your premier twenty-first century selfie— you look good.”

“Photo booths don’t hold a candle to these.”

“Did you use them a lot?”

“No,” Steve said. “Just the odd time. Then there were the film reels, but this is in colour.”

Steve took his time examining the picture. The ability to carry an entire photo-album in one’s pocket… that certainly wasn’t something Stark had mentioned at his Expo but it was fascinating, perhaps even more so than the floating car. So many memories able to be kept and later shared. Revisited and vibrant, so unlike the posed pictures Sarah Rogers dutifully dusted on her mantle every Sabbath; the Rogers’ wedding day, Sarah holding her first child whom a week later would be buried in an Irish cemetery, Joseph standing in his uniform with the dark circles already evident under his eyes. For once, this was a photo Steve wouldn’t mind looking back on.

Clint smiled softly, maybe like he understood. “I take pictures of all kinds of things, just for fun. Want to see the inside of a pigeon’s nest?”

Clint showed off the picture of a haphazard pile of twigs, wherein lay one downy pink blob. The light yellow down seemed centred on top of its head and its dark, narrowed eyes seemed to glare at the camera. 

“Mama Bird certainly didn’t like me hanging around for too long,” Clint said. “But I think it’s a cute picture.”

“Cute,” Steve repeated, hesitantly. Pigeons certainly shouldn’t count on winning a Gerber Baby contest anytime soon. 

“I came across this really great mural on my last mission.” He flicked his finger across the screen a few times and titled it towards Steve. It was a psychedelic mess of brightly coloured dots to create some twisted cube. If this was modern art, Steve had a lot of catching up to do.

“It’s… interesting.”

Clint laughed, “You hate it.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Steve deferred.

“Don’t sweat it. Rubik’s cubes can wait for another day.”

Steve was in no hurry to learn about any more cubes.

When Steve didn’t offer an answer, the conversation lulled. Clint glanced around the room, not finding anything worthy enough to rest his eyes on. Steve suddenly felt embarrassed by his Spartan lodgings. Even in his shoebox tenement apartment, he had cared enough to paste the walls with his drawings and used his mother’s knits to brighten the place up. Here though, he had nothing.

Just as the silence was bordering on strained and Steve had made the decision to politely but firmly send Clint off to his room, there was a knock on the door. Steve was so shocked he didn’t even move to answer. 

Clint looked around, “What was that?”

“There’s someone at my door.”

“Are you- you’re supposed to open it.”

Steve realized subconsciously he had been expecting Natasha to just enter the room without knocking. He was relieved as he reached for the doorknob, now having an excuse to send Clint away without being overtly rude. However, when he opened the door it wasn’t Natasha with her pursed lips that showed her annoyance at being kept out for too long.

It was the Director.

“Captain, we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mad at myself for the delay between these chapters. Of course, family drama crops up at the worst time.  
> BUT here it is and Steve had a small respite of angst to eat some fancy gelato.  
> I did (quickly) edit this before posting but, as always, if anyone finds anything strange please let me know :)  
> The start of the school year means the start of my job, so I will try to manage my time wisely and continue a clear schedule.  
> [The mural Clint shows Steve is in Erzsébetváros, Budapest. I really suggest googling it. It's pretty funky]


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief description of a panic attack occurs within this chapter

Director Fury cut an intimidating figure, even more so than Colonel Phillips. Whereas Phillips’ anger was kept at a slow simmer just below the surface, Fury seemed to be bubbling hot at all times. He was composed but his movements, so controlled and curt, betrayed his sharpness. Steve had seen it before on the front lines. Newly appointed Lieutenants who barked all their orders just so they wouldn’t have to hold an honest conversation with the Cadets who never seemed to have enough time left.

Director Fury was a man who had lost people, Steve was sure of that. One doesn’t rise to a position like that, guided by the people Steve had known and not learn something. Steve may not trust him, but he respected the authority the man exuded.

“Please, Director, come in.”

Steve once again became aware of Clint, standing back from the door as Fury made his way in. The Director barely spared the Agent a glance.

“I arrived back from New Mexico after almost losing an entire Strike Team, ready for some well-deserved rest, only to hear that you decided it would be acceptable to take a jog through Central Park.”

“Sir, I…”

“With no active tailing personnel, no false identity put in place, and no God damn idea how a cellphone works.”

To be fair, after today Steve had a grasp on the basics. He understood Director Fury’s speech for that of which it was supposed to appear— the dressing down of a soldier who stepped out on line. God knows Phillips did it enough. The Director was doing it with Clint in the room so it would be passed along the base and show that Captain America wasn’t above penalties. Steve just had to take it like the good little War Bond peddler he was and appear appropriately chastised.

What he wasn’t expecting was for Clint to speak up:

“With all due respect, Director, the Captain was under my care when the incident occurred.”

“Agent Barton, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

Clint stiffened, “I just mean-“

Director Fury then turned to look at Clint with his full attention. “Agent Coulson is very disappointed in your behaviour during his absence. You still aren’t cleared for active duty.”

Clint’s jaw moved in a way that made Steve sure he was biting into the flesh of his cheek. His eyes searched the Director’s face before lowering in deference.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rogers, I expect to see you in my office at 0800 tomorrow. Barton, Agent Coulson will likely wish the same for you.”

And with that, he left. Steve could hear his heavy boots walking down the hall for a long while as he and Clint stood silently; each unsure of how to break the tense air that had settled around them. Steve wasn’t too upset with Fury. He figured later that night when he had time to replay the day’s events and dissect them through a different lens, he would feel rather foolish but the fact that Clint had tried to share the brunt of responsibility and, thus, blame— Steve wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

Clint, of course, was first to speak. “Man, having Coulson disappointed is like making your dad upset. I’m really in for it tomorrow.”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” Steve said, defensive. As much as he knew that Clint and Natasha were most likely obligated to bring him back in, he found himself annoyed. He had never had a father-figure to upset. If only Steve hadn’t been so sensitive in the café, if only he had stayed in his seat, if only he had piloted the Valkyrie to a safe landing, if only he had stayed dead.

Steve sat heavily on the cot. His clenched fists were shaking.

“Hey, now,” Clint kneeled in front of him, hands hovering uncertainly around Steve’s wrists. “Fury was just playing Papa Bear, he’s not truly mad… or at least it won’t last very long.”

Steve shook his head, forcing himself to breath through his nose. It would pass, the feeling of suffocation, it always did. Focus on the now. Breathe in, breathe out. Air, not water. There was water everywhere.

Steve tried to speak; the words got caught in his throat. He felt Clint leverage him to lay on the bed, slipping off the running shoes, and making sure his head was propped with the cushion. Clint picked up the sheet from the floor to cover him and tucked it in comfortably around his sides. 

Clint launched into the plot of Chamber of Secrets complete with affected English accents. Eventually, Steve filtered out the words themselves and focused on the sound. These instances of dissociation had to stop, he told himself sternly. The war was over, he was safe, yet he knew that often wasn’t enough to quell the shell shock. He just had to ignore the things that were setting him off. No more thinking of the past, no more equating his experiences to things that had already been laid to rest decades ago. He had a role to play here. He could sink back into the coloured uniform and fight in the direction they pointed him.

Steve could feel the Arctic water receding. Clint was detailing the modifications made to a Ford Angelina car. Steve closed his burning eyes.

x

When he awoke, Steve had no idea how long it had been. He had sweated through the sheets. His limbs felt like lead. Just another fever brought on by some illness, yes, and there was Bucky waiting by his bedside. Steve raised his arm to card through Bucky’s hair, but it wasn’t the dark brown he knew. As his hand made contact with Clint’s hair, much shorter than the styles with which he was accustomed, Clint jerked awake from where he was slumped on the floor.

Steve removed his hand. It seemed already he had forgotten the promise made to himself. Bucky was gone. Clint had spent the night, his bloodshot eyes and impression of his sweater from where he had cushioned his head suggested that his sleep had been just as restful as Steve’s.

Clint still managed to give a sleepy smile, “Good mornin’.” He stretched out his shoulders, one making a loud ‘pop’ from where it had seized up during the night.

Steve’s throat was dry. He nodded instead. 

“It’s just after seven, so you have a bit before your meeting with Fury,” Clint said. “Want to get breakfast?”

“I’d like to shower.”

Clint sniffed at himself and nodded in understanding, “Ugh, same. How about I come find you after?”

Steve swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, offering a hand to pull Clint to his feet as well. Steve wasn’t sure how to approach what had happened last night. He wanted to apologize, though he was almost certain that Clint would brush it off. There was a part of him that just wanted to forget it— force himself to be firm in his resolve to push through whatever barrier this timeline presented. He needed to be strong. He needed to start over. Now that the Director was back to taking an interest in him, there was no telling what would happen.

Clint seemed to take his silence as agreement. “I’ll save you a breakfast sandwich.”

He gave a longer stretch, rocking onto his tiptoes. He scrubbed at his face, as if he knew the indents were there. Steve wondered how often Clint found himself sleeping in odd places. Clint gave him one more smile and left, closing the door behind him.

Steve stripped on the way to the washroom, throwing his clothes in the corner as he turned the shower on as hot as it could go. The steam quickly filled the small room, fans whirring loudly. The mirror fogged up, so he could avoid looking at himself.

It was easy to focus on the task of washing off the stink of last night’s nightmares and letting it run down the drain. He lathered the shampoo into his hair and was hit with the vague synthetic scent of grapefruit. It seemed the morning had one more hit to dole out yet. 

He stuck his head under the faucet, ignoring the stinging in his eyes, and then stepped out to scrub furiously at his skin with the scratchy towel. He dressed in jeans, not quite the cut he preferred but the button up shirt fit well enough. Its cuffs still had the new starchy feel of a pressed Sunday shirt. There was no pomade for his hair, but he swept it back with the brush and set it with his fingers.

Steve left his room without bothering to remake the bed. He would have to stop by the laundry station later and change the bedding anyway. It was easy to find Director Fury’s office again, despite only being there twice. It was in the middle of the main intersection, reminding Steve of a Principal’s office— able to see all the students as they went about their day, and easily identify scuffles in the hall if need be. He knocked twice and waited to be let in.

He heard Fury call from the other side, and opened the door himself. The office hadn’t changed any in Fury’s absence. There were new file folders on his desk and the potted plant looked a tad more brown than Steve remembered, but Fury himself seemed as stern as ever. He was signing papers and setting them aside, his signature was short but with soft with curled letters. 

“How was the gelato?”

“Sir?”

“Gelato— had you had it before?”

“No, sir.”

“Agent Barton has a ranked list of sweet shops that I’m sure he’ll drag you around to eventually.”

Steve honestly had nothing to say to that. He stood in silence as the Director tidied up his desk, recapped his pearl filigree pen, and leaned back in his chair.

“Once you’re cleared with a new identity, of course.”

“New identity?” Steve didn’t understand. This was the strangest conversation he had had since awakening. 

Director Fury fixed Steve with a glare. “What have you been doing since I left?”

Steve answered honestly, “I read a book called Harry Potter, learned the mess hall menus, and used the track.”

“So you’ve been getting back into the world?”

“With all due respect, Director, I don’t need to get back into the world.”

Fury raised his eyebrow in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Natasha. 

“I want to get back to work,” Steve elaborated.

“And by ‘work,’ you mean—?”

“Field Ops, like the agents.”

“As per the files we gave you on your tablet, the plan was to reintroduce you into the world and allow you to fully experience this new century before starting operations.”

“I don’t want to do that.” It was a knee-jerk response, and it came out harsher than Steve intended. 

Director Fury stood up from his desk and moved around in front, so he was standing directly in front of Steve. The height difference was barely noticeable as Steve stood up straight, tightening his hands behind his back.

“You don’t want to?” Fury said, making direct eye contact. “Rogers, do you even understand what you’re giving up?”

“Director, I want to get out into the field again, as soon as possible.” Steve was feeling the strain on his back. Fury’s gaze did not waver— his one eye was searching Steve’s face. 

It was the first time Steve had truly looked at the scarring around the dark eyepatch. So many of the people Steve had met at SHIELD were marked, whether visibly or with invisible wounds in the way they held themselves, that identified them as soldiers to anyone who knew enough to look. Steve could fall back into familiar patterns, do what Captain America was made to do, and work through what he was feeling, perhaps… eventually.

“We can have you debriefed and sent out later today.”

Steve honestly hadn't expected things to move that quickly. He tried not to let the surprise show on his face, but he knew the Director saw it anyway. Steve figured Fury as a man who did not miss much.

“I expect you in Meeting Room five at 1700. Dismissed”

Steve gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, desperate to leave Fury’s piercing stare.

As he moved down the hallway, Steve’s feet brought him to the Mess Hall as his stomach starting rumbling. It was late for breakfast and the agents that were still milling around were picking at the crumbs of their toast, sipping down that extra cup of coffee before finally starting their day.

Clint was no where to be seen.

Steve let out a sigh, unsure if he was happy or annoyed that the man wasn’t where he said he would be. He supposed his meeting with Agent Coulson had gone longer than Steve’s own. He found himself wondering where Natasha had gone. 

After his breakfast, he stopped by the laundry to get a new set of sheets. The young attendant fumbled through the whole encounter, stuttering as Steve took the fabric from them, then slumping over the desk in embarrassment as Steve said thank you.

He made his bed, taking extra care to tuck in the corners. He hung his used towel up to dry. He wiped down the sink and mirror. He picked up Chamber of Secrets and tried to read it, vaguely noticing the plot from Clint’s story last night. Steve wondered if he would be able to download a copy on his tablet, to take with him. It seemed a shame to stop reading now; he didn’t know when he’d be back. At this point, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to return.

When lunch time rolled around, there was still no sign of Clint. Steve’s hunger drove him to abandon his book as Hermione lay petrified in the hospital bed. The mess hall was crowded, the rush of office workers and agents grabbing food and eating together. Everyone was in a rush, so no one spared him much of a glance.

It was as Steve was heading back to his room to grab his meager possessions that he finally saw Clint. Steve was sure Clint saw him, but he dipped around the corner like a seal.

“Clint!” Steve called to him, picking up his pace. He followed Clint around the bend, hoping to get in front of him. Perhaps he didn’t have his hearing devices in; Steve didn’t want to startle him.

Steve got close enough to walk beside him, waving his hand awkwardly to make his presence known. Clint looked at him from the corner of his eyes, that grin that Steve had come to associate with the man was absent. The difference it made on his face was jarring.

“I didn’t see you at lunch.”

“Thought you’d be busy packing.”

Steve stumbled, “You’ve heard, then.”

Clint kept walking. “Despite the security levels, SHIELD’s rumour mill runs fast.” 

“I’m going where I’m needed.”

“From what I heard, you begged Fury to get you on a Strike Team.”

“I am fulfilling my role,” Steve said, defensive at Clint’s behaviour. Steve did not beg.

“What role?” Clint yelled. He stopped and turned to face Steve. “You had a chance to get out of here. SHIELD had it all set up, and you’ve thrown it all away.”

“I’m going back out there and helping people, I’m a solider—that’s what we do.”

When the words left him mouth, Steve could see how Clint would misinterpret them. Clint was benched, he couldn’t leave to help anyone until that was sorted out, for whatever reason. Steve didn’t mean it that way, but from the way Clint’s jaw slackened. He pushed Steve against the wall. Steve, unsure, let himself be shoved, feeling the cool wall at his back.

Clint was signing and Steve was back in his adolescence, watching the older factory workers on the line. Clint held his arms up near his face, fingers a bit curved, and he rocked them back and forth. That was /war/, Steve knew that sign well enough. The rest Steve struggled to understand; Clint flipped his hands over, wiped his shoulders with his fingertips, hooked his index fingers— all rapid signs that Steve had lost from lack of practice.

“I don’t… Clint, I don’t understand.”

Clint’s hands dropped, “Enjoy your mission, Captain.” He continued on down the hallway.

Steve wanted to go after him, but he didn’t know what to say to make it better. In time he hoped Clint would understand his reasoning, or rather Steve would be able to explain them better. Instead, he turned back to his room, ready to do what he was made for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Signs described in this chapter: war, dead, young, friend. I found conflicting signs for /war/ but I went with the one that I was taught.
> 
> I know the descriptions of Clint signing were rough, but Steve was caught off guard and he didn't use Sign much as a child. I figure he learned mostly from exposure to the influx of Deaf factory/line workers hired in the 30-40s. Steve was "lucky" he had ways to accommodate his HoH, but was always wary that someday he would end up like those older men. I did a lot of research for this chapter; not nearly enough made it in but I hope the intent shines through.  
> *cheers if you know why Steve hates the scent of grapefruit (and it's not just because I'm projecting... again)
> 
> Q: is every chapter going to end with Steve running away from a friend/his feelings?  
> A: gosh I hope not
> 
> tumblr: [here](http://sleepybb8.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

The days flew by for Steve. He was reunited with his circular shield, buffed and repainted. He was introduced to Deputy Director Maria Hill— Fury’s right hand woman— a woman who seemed unassuming at first, but through each new mission she helmed, Steve learned she came by her title honestly. Hill was the voice in his ear for the first six missions; she gave him extra intel, and guided his action as he infiltrated enemy bases. He welcomed her no-nonsense directions as he lost himself to the task at hand.

Day after day, Steve listened to briefings, completed the mission, and returned to his room to read. It wasn’t truly different from his first month, but here he was doing something to help people. He was useful. He was happy.

Steve had stopped reading Harry Potter. Hermione stayed petrified. The story reminded him too much of Clint. Perhaps later, Steve would return to the story and see the children safely to the end of their school year. He had switched to re-reading the history files, over and over, hoping to learn something different.

One morning as Steve entered the briefing room, Deputy Director and Natasha stood side by side waiting for him.

“Captain, you’ll be paired with Agent Romanoff for this assignment,” said Hill.

“As backup?”

Hill raised her chin slightly, giving the impression of looking down her nose at a misbehaving child, “As a partner.”

Steve was unsure. A partner meant this mission had more parameters than his previous ones, more moving parts that required an extra set of eyes. Steve thought he was done with tests, but he supposed he should be pleased he wouldn’t be stuck on milk runs much longer. Paired with a ‘senior’ agent like Romanoff meant he would be getting more insight into the higher workings of SHIELD.

“You can read those on the quinjet,” Hill gestured to the dossiers on the table.

Natasha picked up her folder and with a quick smile at Hill, left the room.

Steve trailed her down the hallway to the hanger. It wasn’t until they entered the quinjet that Natasha truly acknowledged him. 

“You’ve been busy.”

“Keeping tabs on me?”

Natasha rolled her shoulder nonchalantly. “Clint is still benched and I got lonely.”

Steve refrained from asking about Clint, refusing to take the bait. In the past month Steve had come to miss Clint’s presence— the few days they spent together created a lasting impression that Steve was not yet ready to examine. He fiddled with the folder on his lap, running his gloved fingertips over the sharp paper corners.

Natasha exhaled softly. Steve saw her open her folder and hold it close to her face to avoid looking at him.

He could understand why she was annoyed at him. She was Clint’s friend, her loyalty was to a man Steve had by all rights abandoned after a fight… a disagreement, a misunderstanding. Steve would have wondered how that would affect their working together, but he knew enough of Natasha’s character to understand she wouldn’t let personal issues interfere with her job.

As it was, the mission went perfectly. Steve knocked out the armed guards and Natasha slipped into the computer room to identify hacked files and send the necessary edits back to HQ. Steve wasn’t entirely sure how the hack had happened. It wasn’t in the dossier and he didn’t question it. Computers weren’t something he was entirely comfortable with yet. All he needed to know was that bad people were doing bad things and Steve was stopping them. It was enough. It had to be enough.

It was Natasha and Steve’s fourth mission together where things went south.

The base was supposed to be abandoned. It wasn’t. Natasha was clipped on the shoulder and the unexpected force caused her to tumble down a steep hill. Steve took out the armed insurgents, secured the perimeter, and jumped after her.

She was awake but her face was pale, likely from the shock of rolling like a barrel of fish. There was dirt across her face like a large swath of freckles.

“Oops,” she hissed in pain as Steve helped her sit up to assess the damage.

Steve enjoyed Natasha’s deadpan humour.

“I told you to be careful around hills,” Steve chided, like an exasperated parent.

“Sorry, pops. It just looked like so much fun.”

The bullet had nicked her right on the seam of her tac suit. It was bleeding sluggishly, already clotting against the dark fabric. Steve applied a bandage, shifting her shoulder to test mobility. Everything seemed to be in order, but Steve wanted to be sure.

“Should we call for extraction?”

“We don’t get early extraction,” Natasha said, standing to make her way back up the hill.

The rains from the previous week had made the soil soft. There were no sturdy foothold to go back up the way they came. They had to walk around to the other side of the cliff to reach the base again. Steve kept close to Natasha’s side, ready to offer a steady elbow if needed. It was slow going. She stubbornly refused help and stumbled once or twice. Finally inside, Natasha checked the computers and sent off necessary files. Steve poked around the shelves, taking in the flashing lights and data processors. All the bases were small satellite facilities— meant to simply house the technology and reroute the hacked information to a larger station, the whereabouts were yet unknown. 

At one point, Steve turned back to the monitor just as she was clicking through a file labeled ‘Hawkeye.’ He caught a picture out of the corner of his eye. 

“Is that… Clint?”

The picture was of a man pulling back on the string of a compact bow, his back was to the camera, slightly blurry but Steve knew it was Clint. His short hair, that line of freckles just above his right elbow, his stance as he held his breath.

“Is Hawkeye his code name? Why are there pictures of Clint included in the leaked files?”

Natasha didn’t answer automatically. She continued to watch the progress bar of files being deleted. Steve crossed his arms and waited, reading the files names as they disappeared to wherever computer files went to die: Initiative, Gamma, Iron Man, Black Widow, Hammer.

Black Widow was Natasha, that Steve knew well. The other day the pair of them had passed a group of young recruits being led around the facility. The lot of them had stared and whispered. Steve had made the connection between the senior agents that day in the recreation room— the ‘Spider Bitch.’ He hadn’t brought it up to Natasha; obviously that term wasn’t polite. Steve had no reason to give weight to what any other agent said.

“There are some things Fury wanted to wait to tell you,” Natasha finally said. “There’s more to SHIELD than covert missions. They’re looking long-term.”

“Long term,” Steve repeated. “As opposed to just living day-to-day waiting for death.”

“Yes,” said Natasha, she sat down on a chair and breathed out slowly. Her face was slowly regaining its natural colour.

“So Fury has a long-term plan,” Steve mused, “which includes other agents.

“There would be agents involved.”

“But not everyone on the roster is involved with SHIELD?” Steve hazarded a guess, going off her tone of voice.

Natasha didn’t confirm or deny.

Steve sighed, “When was Fury planning on telling me?”

Natasha turned away from the computer. “I’m not sure,” she said.

Steve didn’t believe her. He ran his hands over the fastenings of his shield, taking comfort in the familiar weight of the Vibranium. Deputy Director Hill had presented it as a gift—something Steve should be grateful for receiving. He had dreamed of the shield sinking to the bottom of the ocean, sitting on the sandy bottom with the Tesseract, being lit by the ghostly blue light. He knew, technically, the shield belonged to the SSR, now SHIELD; it was valuable, it was useful, but even back then Steve had no intentions of ever returning it. It was an extension of himself, and he was happy to have it back on his arm.

“How did you join SHIELD?”

The question took Natasha off guard: “Why does that matter?” It came out sharp. 

“You’re being recruited for this team. Obviously, you’re an asset. Have you been with SHIELD long?”

“A few years,” she said. “You could say I’m a transplant.”

Steve waited for her to continue. When it seemed she would not be more forthcoming he tried another tactic.

“What did you mean before, with ‘no early extraction’?”

Natasha turned her back on Steve, “Clint and I, when we work together, we know not to expect one. That’s just how we work.”

“You and Clint seem to be an unlikely pair.” Steve tried to sound polite. He knew partners didn’t have to have the same personality to work well in the field, but they just seemed so opposite considering what he had known of them both thus far.

Natasha turned to face him. There was the hint of a smile on her face: “I was born in the U.S.S.R, now we call it Russia.” Steve huffed a laugh; he had looked at a current map since waking up. “I worked as a spy there. Clint was sent to kill me, but he persuaded me to come in and change sides.”

“Your allegiance isn’t to SHIELD then, it’s to Clint,” Steve stated. His admiration of the man grew. Going against orders to save someone was something Steve knew well and could appreciate. He supposed that was why the pair of them seemed to be so close.

Natasha made a small sound of disapproval, “It may have started that way. I like to think my allegiance had grown since then. It did take a while for others to… warm up to me.

The demeanour of other agents made more sense now. If people saw Natasha as some sort of double agent, using Barton’s good will, and infiltrating SHIELD to send information back to Russia it would have taken quite a bit for her to prove herself.

Natasha continued, “If Clint had just killed me, he would have been lauded as a hero. Instead, we were both ostracized.” She stood up, and experimentally poked her shoulder with an annoyed expression. “It has been years, but some opinions do not change.”

Steve understood the dichotomy, however he had fought for the very notion that everyone had to right to acceptance, that working hard to help people was the most important part of being a soldier. “People shouldn’t be pigeonholed based on where they come from.”

Natasha levelled him with a careful look, “No, I suppose not.” She retrieved a comm device from her belt and checked the screen, “Time to head out. We’ve got more work to do.”

Steve nodded, “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer than I anticipated, but it sets up events for later so I had to be sure some seeds were planted. I hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> We passed 100 kudos! I never expected this fic to get the attention it has received and I'm so thankful for every comment, kudo, and hit. Please continue to enjoy~


	7. Chapter 7

The revelation of Fury’s team had been weighing on Steve’s mind. What was Fury gearing up for? 

Natasha hadn’t been any more forthcoming, but he had sensed a shift in their interactions. She was more open; they had conversations that pertained to more than just the mission. She had talked about her ballet lessons at a young age, her arms curved in a delicate bras bas, and her favourite movie she enjoyed watching with Clint— a story of a fox and a hound who were friends despite their differences.

In turn, Steve shared his love of big band music and shyly mentioned attending Art school. He hadn’t held a pencil since waking up; he wondered how it would feel. Steve wasn’t sure if he would consider he and Natasha friends yet, but it was better than the cool presence of indifference with which they had started.

Steve did enjoy listening to her and Deputy Director Hill banter back in forth during debriefs.

Steve didn’t ask about the files again. He tried not to think about the files. He tried not to think about Clint. He failed.

“Do you know how to sign?” Steve asked one night over supper.

“I suppose you mean American Sign Language.”

“Yes,” Steve fumbled.

“Of course.” She waited for him to make the first move.

He blew a long breath over his cup of coffee. “Is that what Clint knows?”

“Among others,” she hedged. He supposed that was a story he would have to ask Clint himself.

“Can you… before we left, Clint was mad. He wanted to tell me something but I didn’t understand. I suppose I didn’t want to understand.”

Natasha blinked slowly.

“Can you teach me? I used to know some, as a child my mother taught me the letters.” In the evenings after Sarah Rogers returned from work, sitting at the kitchen table with her son, moulding his unwilling hands into the correct shape. She had learned from a patient, who had learned from their parents— knowledge passed down by family as they worked together to live in a world that thought them broken. Sarah Rogers knew broken; she knew beaten down and scared and ridiculed. Sarah had been many of these things. She would not let her son feel broken.

Natasha grabbed his right hand, running her smaller finger over Steve’s knuckles, feeling the joints. Steve had a feeling that, if Natasha truly wanted to, she could snap his finger before he could blink. Serum or no serum, Natasha was not to be underestimated. 

She pressed his hand into an ‘a,’ curving his fingers towards his palm. “Shall we start with swears?”

x

Eventually there was a lull in missions. The trail of hacked files dried up and Hill was dropping remarks of returning to the main headquarters. Natasha seemed pleased. She said as much one evening as they all sat together eating microwave oatmeal. 

“I’m just glad I won’t have to eat this stuff anymore,” Hill said, scraping the bottom of her bowl. “I’m getting sick of artificial peach.”

“You’re just upset because you miss the egg tarts that intern brought you every morning,” Natasha said.

Hill sighed wistfully, “They’re so delicious.”

“Marika only brings them for you because she has a crush on you.”

Hill narrowed her eyes, “You know as well as I do that Marika and Victoria are engaged.”

“Doesn’t matter. No one ever brings me egg tarts,” Natasha whined.

“It’s alright, Natasha, no one brings me egg tarts either.” Steve had never even eaten an egg tart before.

Both Hill and Natasha cracked up at that. Steve wasn’t sure what was so funny.

Hill leaned back in her chair. “It will be nice to go back, though. I feel bad for Nick when we’re away.”

“I’m sure he’s been busy,” Steve said, realizing a bit late that his tone was on the wrong side of bitter. 

Natasha stood and placed her bowl in the sink. “It will be good to go back for a bit,” she said, looking at Steve. “I miss Clint.”

“Like two peas in a pod,” Maria said, and Steve could tell she meant it fondly. She took one last spoonful of her cooling oatmeal and grimaced in distaste. “I’m heading to one of our research facilities before going back to New York, but you all have fun without me.”

Steve noticed the look that passed shared between Natasha and Hill; more unspoken conversation Steve was not privy too.

“Too bad,” Natasha said. “You’re going to miss the movie night.” She made sure Steve was paying attention and signed movie by waving her right hand behind her left palm. Steve repeated the motion a few times before she gave him the satisfied nod.

“I’ll tell Fury you said Приве́т.”

Natasha put on a stern look, furrowing her eyebrows. “Your accent terrible,” she sounded like an angry Russian babushka. “Bah, dishonour on you.”

Hill and Steve laughed as Natasha kept her exaggerated scowl, cursing in Russian.

x

That night as Steve was rolling down the sheets of his cot, Natasha approached him with a wooden comb.

“You want me to brush your hair?” he stretched out his hand to take it from her.

She pushed him to sit on the cot and climbed behind him: “No.”

She ran the comb through his hair, “It’s getting long. You don’t want to get tangles.”

Steve’s hair had been getting longer. As a child, his mother had cut it as he perched on the kitchen table— that thin slab of wood that covered the tin bathtub. Sarah didn’t like how it fell in his eyes. Later, when she was gone, he let it grow and swept it off his forehead— jealous of the way women were able to pin their fringe into victory curls. 

The back was curling down around his ears. Natasha grabbed a strand and worked her way through a knot, taking care not to pull. Steve couldn’t think of the last time someone had brushed his hair. 

“I’ll do yours after this,” he promised.

“No, you won’t,” Natasha said. “This will put you right to sleep.”

The gentle scratch of the comb over his scalp was relaxing.

“Is this some secret spy tactic?” It was a dumb joke, but Natasha gave that soft huff of breath that meant she was amused.

“Just be still, Steve.”

Steve lost himself to the hypnotic feeling, letting his eyes drift closed as Natasha continued her work. She was humming something, a lullaby-tune that seemed to vibrate from her as they sat so close together. It seemed familiar, like he should know the lyrics. It was niggling at the back of his mind, as Natasha continued humming the soft, dreamy song. It was as if he had fallen asleep, maybe he had, when his tablet pinged with a message. He reached for it clumsily, as Natasha leaned over his shoulder to see.

It was from Clint.

Steve’s hand stilled. He could feel Natasha’s breath on the back of his ear, waiting. They both waited.

The notification bubble hovered over the messages icon. It was only message Steve had received since the selfie, which felt like ages ago. Natasha had shown him how to set it as his background. Their faces smiled at him as his finger hovered over the application. Steve’s own smile seemed condescending. 

He pulled up the message. It was short: heard you’re coming back to hq can we talk then? :)

How had Clint heard about their return? Was that a smily face? Clint was happy he was coming back, maybe.

“Don’t over think it,” Natasha said, reminding him that she was watching. “Answer him back.”

Steve opened the keyboard and typed out a reply: I’d like that. See you soon. After a beat of hesitation, he added a colon right parentheses as well.

“Cute,” Natasha said, with her dry sense of humour.

Steve rolled his shoulder, dislodging her chin. The ease he felt during the airbrushing had evaporated. He became aware of his pulse, beating away in chest, annoyingly.

“I’m going to bed.”

Natasha blinked at him, innocently.

“You need to leave.”

“Right,” she said, rolling off the cot with feline grace.

Steve finished unfolding his blankets and laid down. His eyes tracked Natasha as she left the room with a silent wave. In three days, Steve would be able to apologize and show him that he was trying to understand sign language to be a better friend. Steve set his tablet on the table beside him, the picture of Clint and him bright and cheerful as he closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much for the comments and kudos during this long wait. [ >tumblr](http://sleepybb8.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> this started off with a text post (as so many fics do) about Steve finding out cigs cause cancer in the 20th century. chapter 1 does not contain this element, because when does a fic ever do what I want it to do. Sorry, Nausi. Next chapter will hopefully be up sometime next week. ta~


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